


The Hobbit and the Dwarrowdam

by bumblebee_in_the_sea



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dwarf & Hobbit Cultural Differences, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/F, Feel like I'm yelling into the void, Fluff, Hobbit Courting, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Hobbiton, Journey, Lesbians, My First Fanfic, Post-Hobbit, Wish me luck, i didnt edit this, its all fluff, or proofread, we're just going with it, what's the worst that can happen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27504223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebee_in_the_sea/pseuds/bumblebee_in_the_sea
Summary: a dwarrowdam takes her girlfriend to see the all the wonders of middle earth.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	The Hobbit and the Dwarrowdam

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published work, I know its not very good (I didn't edit, or honestly even proofread), but please be nice. also not really expecting anyone to read this, but I'm sending this out into the world anyway.

We lay in the field, my head on her stomach and our fingers intertwined. Around us, fat bumblebees stumble drunkenly between abundant flowers. My love sings in Khuzdul, her native language, just loud enough for me to hear. The tune is soft and deep, but as warm and rich as golden honey. In her voice, I can imagine the mountains reaching higher than the clouds. I can see the great halls, the bright forges, the riches flowing from every crevice. It’s a stark contrast to my life of wildflowers and freshly baked bread – but it’s not an unwelcome one.   
On one such morning, I ask her.   
“will you take me to see your mountains?”  
She laughs and kisses my hand.   
“certainly, my love, I’ll take you to see my mountains and my halls of stone. But you must show me how you make strawberry jam taste so sweet”. 

We ride on shire ponies through the open woodland. I name the species of bird aloud to her as they whistle for their mates high in the canopy. She sings an elvish traveling song, the notes high and elegant. I feel as though I know the forest the song so sweetly recalls. The enchanted streams and whispering trees and dappled sunlight.   
“will you take me to meet the woodland elves?” I ask her one lazy afternoon.   
She smiles gently and kisses my forehead.   
“of course, my love. I shall take you to meet Thranduil himself, king of the woodland elves. But first, you must tell where you learned to find all the edible wild berries.”

We gallop through the never-ending plains of Rohan. The wind undoes her carefully braided hair, and sends loose curls flying across my face. We laugh as we come to a halt, the exhilaration leaving us gasping for breath. Later, she sings out to the entire plain. It’s a human song, boasting of victory and war. I join the tune, though the words taste foreign and unsavoury on my tongue.   
I ask her later, as the crickets come out to worship the setting sun.   
“will we visit Gondor, and the white castle on the hill?”   
“certainly, my love. And from the markets I shall buy you all the apples you can carry. But you must teach me to make the flower crowns you wear so beautifully in your hair.”

We lead the ponies over mountains that seem as high as the moon. Snow flakes fall all around us, silently joining their siblings under our boots. As they drift past me, I reach out to touch them – each one is pristine and unique, as if each one were hand carved just for the two of us. As we walk, She sings with long, slow words I don’t recognise. She calls it the language of the Ents – the great tree-people would guard the ____ forest. The sound is wise and old – knowledgeable in matters neither of us could ever hope to understand.   
“do you think we’ll meet an ent one day?” I ask her one evening, huddled around the fire.   
“perhaps,” she says, pulling my hands into hers. “I shall take you to their meeting places of old, and we will call out to wake them from their slumber. But you must read me your poetry of the shire as we travel.” 

We sit on a rocky ledge, our feet dangling in the salty water that stretches out farther than I can see. Of all places, this is the one that feels farthest from home. The salt, the sun, the harsh cries of gulls all around the bay. So I sing. An old Hobbiton song. It is not as elegant as elvish melodies, nor as rich as dwarven tunes. It is not as wise and old as the Ent’s baritone notes, nor as full of fast, fleeting emotion as man’s music. But it told of home. It told of gardens and daisies and fresh bread. Of sweet jam, of poetry, of picking wild blue berries in the summer. I sing, and my love listens to my tune, as though it shows her my soul.   
Later, when the moon shines high above the waves, she asks me:  
“my love, when we arrive home, will you show me all the wonders of the shire?”  
I give her a gentle kiss.   
“of course, my love. There is nothing I would rather do.”


End file.
